


By The Time I'm Finished With You

by Twisted_Mind



Series: Steter Porn Olympics [3]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Peter Hale, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Crying During Sex, Dirty Talk, Extremely Dubious Consent, Felching, Forced Orgasm, Humiliation, Knotting, M/M, Masturbation, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Multiple Orgasms, Omega Stiles Stilinski, Oral Sex, POV Stiles, ambiguous genitalia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-23
Updated: 2016-09-23
Packaged: 2018-08-16 20:03:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8115640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Twisted_Mind/pseuds/Twisted_Mind
Summary: And then Peter’s forcing himself inside, and Stiles knows the knot hasn’t fully expanded yet, knows there’s more to come, and he’s suddenly terrified. He didn’t ask for this. Hasn’t ever taken a knot, not even a fake one, and what if he can’t? What if it’s too big, hurts too much, tears him apart?    Peter leans down and kisses up the tears leaking from the corners of his eyes. “Shh, shh, baby. Don’t be scared. Just let it happen. You’ll be okay. Your body was made for this.”





	

**Author's Note:**

> I am trash. (You knew this.) This is Dena's fault. (No one should be surprised.) We saw a list of dub-con/non-con prompts, and immediately took it as a challenge to see how many we could cram into a single fic. This is my attempt. I'm sorry and you're welcome. 
> 
> Also enabled by BelleAmante, XCuteAsHale, and iam09. The ranks of my enablers continue to swell, and I think we have hit the point wherein everyone should be afraid. Think of the children. 
> 
> And, speaking of children--Stiles is 17 here. Which is underage according to California law, and when trying to buy sex toys, but isn't according to the laws in other places or to puberty, so. YMMV here.

 

Heat sucks. It always makes him cranky and irritable. The incessant horniness isn’t that much of a change of pace from the usual, but the inability to feel satisfied after a good orgasm or three definitely is, and he is not happy about it. Suppressants are supposed to take the edge off, but he doesn’t think they actually do. Spending his heat with an Alpha is apparently as close to Heaven as mortals can get, but he’s still underage and his dad won’t sign off on it, which is, coincidentally, the same reason Dad won’t let him buy a knotting dildo. He doesn’t want Stiles hurting himself by forcing his body to accept something he’s not ready for.

Because this is clearly so much better.

So he’s sprawled on his bed, one hand wrapped around his cock while he fingers himself with the other. He’s been at it for nearly twenty minutes, and he’s no closer to coming than he was when he started—he’s too slippery, body mawing open to accept more than he has to give, and his wrist is aching from the weird angle. When he hears the tap at his window, he fucking loses it.

“Fuck off! I don’t have time for whatever it is you want right now!”

The window squeaks open, and someone slides through with that signature werewolf grace, but it’s the scent of Alpha that makes him moan, a fresh pulse of slick gushing out around his fingers.

“Well now, this explains your little fit of pique.”

His eyes fly open and fix on Peter, who’s staring at him with even more hunger than usual. He works the fingers inside him faster, whining. Peter tuts. “Darling, we both know that’s not going to cut it. Where’s your heat aid?”

He thrashes. “Don’t ha-have one.”

Peter’s eyes darken, and he strips off his jacket, tossing it casually over Stiles’s desk chair. “Well, then, I’d say I arrived just in time.”

His vision is stuck in that cycle of blur-and-clear, blur-and-clear, but this is the first time his hearing has gone wonky during heat. “What?”

And then he’s whining, fighting hard against the hands that are pulling his own away from his crotch. He needs to come, damnit, and that shit’s not gonna happen by itself. But then Peter’s mouth is there and hot, his tongue chasing after Stiles’s slick, insistent and possessive, and no, no, he did not ask for this, what is even happening here.

“Stop, Peter, what—”

Peter leans up, but only to pull his shirt over his head. “I don’t think you really want me to do that, sweetheart.”

“What, why’re you—”

Peter’s hand slides up his torso to wrap lightly around his throat. He swallows reflexively. “Deep down you want this, and we both know it. Now be a good boy, and let me give you what you need.”

He doesn’t have time to agree or disagree—and he doesn’t even know which he would have gone with, is the frightening part—before Peter’s sucking and slurping at him again. He tries to reach for his cock, but Peter slaps his hand away. He whimpers, needing to come. Peter eating him like a starving man isn’t enough.

And the bastard knows it, because he pulls away to kiss Stiles, pushing a musky-bitter tongue into his mouth. Stiles sucks on it, getting off on the taste. He doesn’t know why. He blames the hormones.

And then he hears Peter lower the zip of his jeans, and freezes. He doesn’t ask. He knows what’s coming next. He squirms, trying to get away, but Peter keeps him pinned with one hand. The other he uses to line up the head of his cock.

Stiles tenses, hoping to keep Peter out, but the fact is, he’s in heat. This is exactly what his body wants. He’s wet and open, waiting for and wanting exactly this. The tip enters with minimal resistance, but Peter doesn’t stop, doesn’t give him time to adjust. He keeps right on pushing, driving his hips forward, and Stiles has never been stretched this wide, never taken more than his fingers, and it burns, he doesn’t like it, stop, stop, stop.

“Peter, no, stop, I don’t—”

Peter growls, fangs flashing. "I don't care whether you like it or not. Take it.” And then he thrusts all the way home.

Stiles thinks he’s crying. It’s too much. He’s too full. It hurts, but it feels _good_ , too, like this is what he was missing, is exactly what he needs. Peter starts moving, and the way he forces Stiles’s body to open, to accept the fucking it’s being given, is making it hard to breathe.

“Such a hungry little cunt,” Peter coos, and he turns his head away, cheeks burning in shame. “Don’t pretend that you can’t feel the way you’re sucking my cock in deeper, squeezing around me.”

“Shut up. I’m in heat, doesn’t mean I like it,” he protests. But it’s weak, so weak, and they both know it.

Peter hums, and puts enough force behind the next snap of his hips that Stiles cries out. “You’ll like it by the time I’m finished with you.”

Stiles wants to argue, just on principle, but the orgasm he’s been chasing all afternoon is starting to burn in his pelvis. When Peter leans down to sink inhumanly-sharp teeth into his shoulder, he arches, every muscle in his body tightening abruptly as he comes. It’s violent, and it hurts, especially where he’s split open on Peter’s cock, and he feels something like relief when it’s over.

He clears his throat, wondering how, exactly, one goes about thanking and kicking out unwanted saviours for sanity-restoring orgasms, but then Peter flexes his hips, and any dulling effect the orgasm had on his heat vanishes. He moans. “Stop, I can’t. It’s too soon.”

It doesn’t matter that Peter’s more grinding than thrusting, that half his cock isn’t even inside, it’s still overwhelming. Peter, however, couldn’t care less. “It’s not, sweetling, but that’s okay. This is your first time with an Alpha. You’ll learn.”

He breaks, then, chanting “no” and “please”, but need is burning him up from the inside out, and he couldn’t stop the way his hips are undulating into Peter’s thrusts if he tried. As the need grows, he thinks he can handle this, that the shallow rutting is enough to make him come again if his dick can get a little attention, and then he feels something nudging against where he’s stretched almost-painfully around Peter’s cock.

“Ready, pet?”

“Wh-wh-ah?” Words. He can think them, sort of, but he can’t make them come out of his mouth. Peter must understand what he’s asking, though, because he answers.

“I’m going to knot you, baby.”

“No,” he mewls.

“Yes, I am, and I’m not going to stop until I’m satisfied. You’re going to lie there and take it while I carve you open and make you mine, and I promise you’re going to love every second of it.”

And then Peter’s forcing himself inside, and Stiles knows the knot hasn’t fully expanded yet, knows there’s more to come, and he’s suddenly terrified. He didn’t ask for this. Hasn’t ever taken a knot, not even a fake one, and what if he can’t? What if it’s too big, hurts too much, tears him apart?

Peter leans down and kisses up the tears leaking from the corners of his eyes. “Shh, shh, baby. Don’t be scared. Just let it happen. You’ll be okay. Your body was made for this.”

It’s creepy and awful—omegas are so much more than their ability to take knots—but it makes him feel better anyway. Lets him heave in deep breaths, and wrap his arms around Peter’s shoulders so the Alpha can slip an arm under him, tilting his pelvis in a way that eases the strain on his hips, that makes it feel kind of good.

“That’s it, just like that, baby,” Peter murmurs, sucking kisses along his throat and grinding inside Stiles’s body. It’s slow, and the knot is still frightening, still unknown, but he hasn’t felt this lucid during heat that he can ever remember, and Peter wasn’t wrong. He does want this. Has for a long time. And not just when the hormonal storm of heat makes his body crave being stuffed full.

So he breathes, letting Peter bite dark marks into his skin, and tries to ride it out as the knot finishes expanding. Peter keeps moving, swivelling his hips, refusing to make it easier on him. He doesn’t stop until his knot is full, locked inside, and Stiles’s eyes roll back in his head.

This is. _This_. He doesn’t have words. He’s so full, and in the best way. Peter’s knot is stretching him open, holding him in place, delivering pressure that can only be described as “perfect”. He chokes, trying to breathe past the sensations that are assaulting every nerve ending in his body. It’s almost too much.

And then Peter starts moving, fucking him with the knot, and he can’t help the garbled yell that tears its way up from his lungs. He can’t. He doesn’t. How. How is he supposed to cope with this?

Because Peter never withdraws too far, pulling back just far enough to knock against the ring of muscles that have clamped shut to hold his knot inside. The way Stiles is clenching around it, Peter forcing his way through the muscles trying to keep him still, the way he’s fucking _battering_ Stiles’s pleasure-spot, is impossible to process. He can only lie there, clutching at Peter’s hair and wheezing.

And then Peter slips a hand between them and squeezes his cock.

That’s it. Game over. He bucks and thrashes, unable to let out the scream he can feel caught in his throat because he comes so hard his lungs forget how to work. He’s boneless after, completely spent, and he wonders how sore he’s gonna be tomorrow, but thinks that as long as he can lie down, it will have been worth it.

A deep, rattling groan knocks him out of his torpor. Looking up, he sees that Peter’s face is twisted as his chest heaves with his panting. Stiles is about to ask, because, well, his dad did manage to drill _some_ manners into his head, and then he feels it. The first throb of Peter’s knot as he starts to come.

He doesn’t think the sensation should feel good, let alone make his dick twitch, but it does. He can’t get hard again, he _can’t_ , but he gets hornier the longer he lies there, feeling Peter fill him up with spurt after spurt. He’s moaning by the time the knot starts to soften, and he’d worry about the hot rush that’s about to spill out and ruin the sheets, but they’re pretty much already ruined, so.

“Turn over.”

Huh? Peter wants him to do what now?

Only, instead of repeating himself, Peter eases out and immediately turns Stiles over, swings his legs around, and then drags him half off the bed. Before he can ask what in the hell Peter’s up to, large hands are pushing his thighs apart and holding him open, and then that, that is a tongue.

He squirms, because it’s all he can do, exhausted as he is. That and whimper. Because Peter is gorging on not just Stiles’s slick, but his own come as he sucks, tongue plunging inside. The heat of it is maddening—gentler than the burn of Peter’s cock, soothing almost, but his body doesn’t want soothing right now. It wants more, and this, this isn’t enough. If anything, it’s making the neediness _worse_.

He sighs when Peter stands and pushes back into him. He hitches his hips a little higher even though the rest of him is ragdoll limp. It makes Peter chuckle and thrust harder. “Poor little knotslut,” he croons, fond and a little breathless. “All worn out, but still needing more.”

He doesn’t have the energy to cry, but even he can hear how cracked and ragged his voice sounds when he rasps, “Please, Peter.” He doesn’t know what he’s even asking for. More? Less? To come? For Peter to shut up? Peter to leave? Stay?

The choice isn’t up to him, and he thinks he might be grateful for that, as screwed up as it makes him.

Peter tuts. “Of course, sweetheart. I told you I’d give you what you need.”

And, well. Stiles doesn’t want to feel Peter’s knot expanding again, stretching flesh that’s already raw and sensitive, but he doesn’t fight it. Not when he knows that Peter’s right, he needs this. So he breathes and tries to ride it out the _oh-god-too-much_. When they’re tied again, he grits out, “How long will this last?”

Peter smooths a hand up his back. “As long as I want it to.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> I know, I know. This isn't the update you were hoping for. But my health went _right_ down the shitter for a few weeks, and strangled my ability to write. I'm working on it. Victorian AU is being worked on, please be patient.


End file.
